


Tessellation

by aesthetically



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone Has Issues, M/M, Slow Burn, There's a plot I swear, a lot of tension, like... very slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:58:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesthetically/pseuds/aesthetically
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Kylo Ren comes aboard the Finalizer, Hux knows, somehow, that things will never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tessellation

**Author's Note:**

> "False face must hide what the false heart doth know."  
> \- _Macbeth_ , William Shakespeare.

“I’ve assigned my apprentice to this ship,” Hux is told not a month after his promotion. “Work together.”

He attempts (in vain) to reinterpret the unfathomable.

Supreme Leader knows best. It’s much too cumbersome a burden for a man to run a ship as large as the Finalizer on his own; he needs another commander, another equal, another example for the troops to—

_Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit._ Hux sniffs with indignance; he can almost hear his father’s voice in the back of his head, scolding him, shaking with that quiet, insidious kind of fury that’d made him instinctively flinch as a child (though that pathetic reaction has disappeared long since; it’s been beaten out of him, trained into inexistence). _The worst lie you can tell is the one you tell yourself._ He’s decided, after many years of debate, that the proverb holds some truth (it doesn’t make him hate it any less, however).

No longer blinded by an uncharacteristic idealism, he tries again: Snoke is assigning his undisciplined apprentice to his orderly ship. All his power, all his control is now to be _shared_ , no longer his but _theirs_ , years of blood and sweat and impossible toil worth nothing next to some Force-sensitive myth of a man. Forget that he’s fought tooth and nail to get to where he is, forget that he’s sacrificed practically everything, that he’s performed a number of unspeakable things for this job—a _magician_ , untrained in _anything_ military, anything First Order, is here to save the kriffing day (he’s been trained in the ways of some ancient, trite religion—isn’t that enough?).

He feels like _gagging_.

Frustration seethes in his chest, threatens to show in his countenance—it takes every ounce of self-restraint he possesses to bite back a brusque “ _no kriffing way_.” What business does the master of the Knights of Ren have on his ship, anyway? While he’s achieved plenty (Hux recalls the massacre of Luke Skywalker’s Jedi, how senior officers claimed that it was the work of a mere boy), none of it’s been for the sake of the First Order, and none of it’s been done neatly. _Is it no longer enough to be above military command?_ The question is blistering, searing him from inside out. _Must he possess everything?_

It makes him feel like a damned teenager again, to detest command so passionately and not be able to do a thing about it. He’d spent years at the Academy biting his tongue, swallowing his words, remaining perfectly amiable for superiors and classmates alike—he’d been convinced that his years of grovelling were over. _Fool_ , he spits in the face of his juvenile arrogance. He’s _rewarded_ for self-control, renowned for it; his rise to the top isn’t a result of asking questions or expressing doubts (his father’s voice, again, with more proverbial wisdom— _those who run their mouths oft wind up dead_ ).

It’s powerful enough of a reminder to tame him into submission.

Hux bows his head, eyes lowered, pride swallowed—mostly. If he hadn’t been wearing gloves, he reckons his palms would be bleeding from how tightly his fists are curled. “Of course, Supreme Leader.” The words are hissed in between clenched teeth, coerced out of him.

“I expect nothing but the best behavior from you both.” With that, the holo fades. He tastes blood in his mouth.

_Best behavior_ , he scoffs as he leaves the bleak room behind, tugging his greatcoat tighter to his frame—it was as if he was being mocked, as if the whole galaxy was shaking its head in acute disapproval (even from beyond the grave his father was _tsking_ at him, waiting for him to pull himself together). Snoke surely knew the request was well-nigh impossible—he might as well ask the same of two feral beasts trapped in a durasteel cage. _And I thought tests at the Academy were difficult._

“You,” he barks at two unsuspecting troopers standing guard in the hall. They cease babbling immediately, stand at full attention (a physical, tangible reminder of his authority—he’s soothed by this). “Have a suite prepared on the upper deck by 1700 hours.”

“General, sir, that’s not our—”

“I’m certain you’re capable of figuring it out?” It isn’t a question. The troopers salute, echo a ‘ _yes, General, sir_.’ Hux nods stiffly. “You’re dismissed.” As he watches them wordlessly march away, like shiny, teflon toy soldiers, a kind of pride swells in his chest, dangerous, cocksure—he knows he likes command too much to share it wholeheartedly. _A flaw_ , he warns himself as he draws near the bridge. _Leaders must learn to compromise_. Snoke’s order comes to mind. _Or sacrifice_.

There was a reason the Empire fell, after all.

His father attributed it to that ‘damned Skywalker bastard’ (which one he was talking about and whether that mattered or not, Hux could never be sure); he attributed it to the incompetence of a clone army ( _defeated by stuffed bears!_ His father exclaimed, half-mad. _It’s shameful—and it’ll be that way till clones are replaced._ Though Hux isn’t particularly fond of accrediting his father for his work, he can’t take _all_ due praise for the Stormtrooper conditioning program). His own research, done in the Academy’s library and Imperial Archives, attributed it to flawed leadership and personal weakness. Emperor Palpatine was uncompromising as he was old and iron-fisted as he was ugly—it was a measly twenty-four years that he held onto power before it all went to shit. He was too _present_ for someone as supremely powerful as he was (which partially explained Snoke’s reclusive nature), too self-important. Without Vader (a puppet to his master’s whims weakened by _attachment_ ), without an influential-enough second-in-command to pick up the pieces of his crumbling Empire ( _everyone_ , his father recounted, was scrambling to inherit the throne), _he was doomed for failure._

He needed some kind of illusion for the galaxy’s inhabitants to trust in, Hux resolved after reading hundreds of holorecords on history, on politics, on military strategy. A cabinet, a Senate—the very same one he _dissolved_ would’ve worked. If he enlisted the aid of a skilled diplomat, more time would’ve been bought (the name _Padmé Amidala_ suddenly comes to mind—former Queen of Naboo, renowned Senator, intelligent, capable, brimming with potential. It was too bad, then, that she was involved with Anakin Skywalker, that she was a little too soft and idealistic and in favor of democracy for her own good. He reckons she could’ve _been_ something without her attachment to the would-be Vader, to the world). After all, it’d been internal conflict that signed that treaty, not total decimation of Imperial forces.

But maybe that was for the better.

The First Order, with a meaningful chain of command, a militant upbringing, and nearly unmatched technological capacity, was by far superior to the Galactic Empire. Even Snoke, as ancient, and mystic, and knowledgeable in the ways of the Force as he was, wasn’t as severely omnipresent as Emperor Palpatine (though his Sith Lord, his Knight of Ren, his _whatever_ seemed to be—a single flaw in the well-oiled machine that was the Order). Hux had read about history repeating— _redeeming_ —itself time and time again; he knew the rise and fall of the Galactic Republic and the Empire that followed like the back of his hand. He knew what it would take to become Emperor, and he knew, more importantly, how to make it last.

It was as simple as avoiding imbalance in authority, as simple as not putting all his faith in the inner workings of the Force and its wielders. It was abstaining from attachment to just about anyone ( _especially_ to a Skywalker, he notes snidely, in jest, if anything—their lineage seemed doomed for misfortune). With his capacity for self-command, he reckons he has the patience for anything—he _will_ learn to tolerate Kylo Ren (though not without the help of a smoke or two; he finds the man’s freedom from First Order hierarchy—not unlike the relationship between the Sith and the Empire—distasteful).

By the time Hux is on the bridge, everything is in full-swing: petty officers frantically scurrying from console to console, higher-ups barking their orders, glancing over paperwork, speaking through communicators. He watches over all of this, proud of himself, proud of his men—work ethic is truly something to be admired.

“General,” someone says, tentative to break him from his focus. Hux blinks, turns his head. A Petty Officer— _Thanisson,_ he thinks. “Captain Phasma is—” The boy doesn’t need to finish his sentence for Hux to be aware of the situation. _Of course she’s here_.

“She’s been waiting on me, has she?” He’d be _irritated_ by Phasma’s borderline insubordinance (hell, he’s being _generous_ with ‘borderline’) if he wasn’t just a little fond of her knack for playful banter. She was an excellent Captain, anyway (and an even better friend, though he’d never admit that _aloud_ —the woman was already too arrogant for her own damn good).

“Yes, sir, by the viewport.”

“Next time the good Captain asks something of you, Thanisson, feel free to ignore her. You have real work to undertake, I’m sure.” The look of stupor that graces the young man’s face almost makes Hux _smile_ before he remembers the bitter mood he’s in.

“If you say so, sir.”

Hux, after dismissing the flustered officer to his duties (he’d think him a cadet at the Academy if he didn’t know any better—what was he, eighteen, nineteen?), makes his way to the viewports where Phasma’s shining, chromium armor catches his eye. The Captain stands a little straighter, holds her blaster a little closer. If only she’d accept offers of promotion, he muses.

“I wish you didn’t request petty things of my officers, Captain—you do realize they have a ship to manage.”

“Petty officers are meant for petty requests, are they not?” She responds simply, her shoulders raised into a half-shrug. Before he can even roll his eyes in response, however, she thrusts a stack of papers into his arms. “Though that’s besides the point. The report you requested, General.” Hux glances down at the mess he now cradles.

“You could’ve left this on my desk, Captain.”

“And I would’ve—but what kind of companion would I be if I didn’t inquire about your meeting with the esteemed Supreme Leader?”

“We’re to accommodate _Kylo Ren_ later this afternoon.” He attempts to sound less disdainful than he is, but the way he spits the Knight’s name lays all his cards onto the table—the notion disgusts him, and Phasma can see it clear as day. “Snoke’s orders.”

“Don’t act so flippant, General, it’s rather ill-fitting on a worrywart like you.” _Worrywart_ , he thinks, scowling even more despite himself. _What are we, five_? Why he can’t snap at Phasma for referring to him by such a puerile title, he doesn’t know—his best guess is that he’s grown _used_ to it, which is alarming all on its own. “Though I still fail to see how this is so concerning.”

“You fail to—for kriffing _sake_ , Phasma, he’s a _Knight of Ren_ , a lightsaber-twirling _magician_. Walk with me.” The order, added hastily under his breath and heeded by Phasma without question, is mostly to get them away from the leering eyes of the bridge—he doesn’t need his men (who are _extremely_ gossip-prone, much to his disdain) to overhear any of this. The moment they’re out of earshot, of course, Phasma is more impudent than ever.

She gasps mockingly, clasping a hand to her chest. “My, General, don’t tell me you’ve gotten your panties in a twist over mere superstition?” Hux can’t even decide what makes him angrier: the fact that she’s implying he wears _panties_ or that he’s a man of unfounded belief.

“You forget who you are, Captain. Watch your tone,” he hisses from in between his teeth. “And, for your information, I couldn’t care less about the man being force-sensitive or not; what matters is that he doesn’t know jack about military injunction, and that he’s been given co-command of _my_ ship regardless. Have things not been running smoothly? Am I being punished for a crime never committed?”

“Though you might find my opinion to be only that of a humble Captain’s, I’d say you’re being awfully dramatic about this whole affair. You overwork yourself, General; anyone can see that with those bags under your eyes. Perhaps the Supreme Leader is rewarding your tireless efforts with a break,” she suggests in earnest, shrugging once more. For the second time today, he feels like gagging.

“Don’t be so obtuse—I’ll be working even _harder_ to babysit the pseudo-Sith Lord.”

“Come now, you haven’t even _met_ the man. Who’s to say he’ll need babysitting?” Hux folds his arms over his chest. Perhaps it _was_ a little presumptuous to think the man completely incapable, though he didn’t want to give Phasma the satisfaction of being right. “You’ll learn to adapt, General—you’re good at that. Now, wipe the scowl off your face—or at least do it before your _guest_ arrives. It’s unbecoming of a senior officer.” _Damn her._

“If he’s insufferable, you’re the first to blame.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, General.”

If they were drinking, he reckons they’d raise a glass to this.

Hux can only hope for the best.

\- - - -

It is exactly 1700 hours when the Knight arrives.

His shuttle—sleek and black and like some grim, metal bird of prey (the design _fitting_ for a Knight of Ren)—lands onto the hangar not even a little ungracefully, and already the room is brimming with anticipation; Hux can hear his men whispering under their breath (all rumor, all talk), can see them standing a little closer to the landing pad than they should (they want a glimpse of a man that’s been nothing but myth so far).

And then Kylo Ren emerges.

The first thing Hux notices is the way he walks: assuredly, arrogantly, his swagger exaggerated. He moves in a way that is designed to intimidate, to distract, in a way that is oppressive and imminent and _divine_. As he passes through the hangar, sauntering towards Hux, everyone lowers their gaze to the floor. An aura of smugness surrounds him—he knows damn well of this effect he has. And yet… there’s something more. It’s the hand he keeps on his saber, the slight jerk of his head, the force in his gait. Hux recognizes something…

_Reckless_. The word suddenly reverberates in his skull, and it sticks. Something about Kylo Ren is inherently _reckless_.

_So he’s human, after all._

Hux does not shy away from the approaching Knight; he does not lower his gaze. It will be a cold day in hell before this cloaked fiend, this crude echo of Darth Vader, intimidates _him_.

“Kylo Ren, I presume.”

“You presume correctly, General,” the man says, his voice low, unwavering—it’s been modulated by his mask, shielded from any intonation that’s more than indifferent. _Perfect for a coward_ , he muses. _Is that what I’m dealing with_?

“Welcome aboard the Finalizer.” Hux presents his hand with a stiff upper lip. Kylo Ren selects to ignore it.

Any hope of a stable, working alliance with the Knight is now out of the damn question.

To think that this self-entitled brat had the audacity to humiliate him in front of all his men, had the audacity to brush past his offer of camaraderie like it was _nothing_. The General’s face burns red-hot with shame, his hand falling limp by his side. Where did he get off? _What the_ hell _was his damage_?

“Show me to my quarters.”

And now the maniac is telling him what to do. Oh, how he _loathes_ the universe right now (Snoke was intentionally screwing him over, no doubt about it).

“Of course, Lord Ren,” he replies with barely concealed animosity, his teeth bared in a smile so forced it makes his mouth hurt (over and over, a mantra plays in his head: you _will_ control yourself, you _will_ hold your tongue—this bastard will _not_ get the best of you). “Follow me.”

Hux, without so much as another word, turns on his heels and promptly exits the hangar (with his head lowered, of course—he doesn’t need his men to see him like _this_ , all red-faced and mortified and inexplicably _furious_ ); whether the Knight actually bothers to follow him or not is no longer a concern (hell, he kind of _wishes_ the man would disappear). But when he identifies the presence of something akin to a _shadow_ lurking behind him (ominous, overbearing), he knows his words didn’t fall on deaf ears.

The two move with mere feet between them, and it is impossible still to say that they are any closer, pushed oceans apart by conflicting ideologies, ambitions, personalities. Hell, even their mutual pact of _silence_ is hostile—Hux is practically chewing up the inside of his cheek to contain himself (the Knight is like a fire, a dying star about ready to implode; he’s just the unlucky bastard there to witness it).

“Your quarters,” he starts when they reach the upper deck, an insurmountable wave of relief washing over him as he realizes they are moments from parting. “If you require absolutely anything—”

“That would be all, General. You’re free to leave.”

Hux grits his teeth in sheer frustration with Kylo. _Free to leave_ , he echoes mockingly. _Who does he think he is, dismissing me like a common trooper_? Already it seemed as if the Knight had forgotten Snoke’s demands—they were to work together, to become _co_ -commanders. He could at least pretend to try. “As you wish, Lord Ren. I certainly look forward to our partnership.” With no further interest in exchanging _pleasantries_ , Hux turns and strides quickly out of the hall.

He hates Kylo Ren.

**Author's Note:**

> OHHH boy i haven't published fanfic in like 82872 years, so please forgive me... this chapter was rly slow, but i promise there's a plot somewhere lmao. god am i trash for this ship. 
> 
> hmu on tumblr @k-yluxed!


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